The Quartet
by ShatteredGlassTheif
Summary: The quartet practised in the park the day the music died. On a rainy Parisian Tuesday a quartet are reunited. Clintasha and maybe a little stony. completely AU. It improves vastly after the first chapter so please stick with it.
1. Chapter 1

**The Quartet**

**Hey people, I was planning on writing the next chapter of confessions of a black widow, but I had this idea and I had to write it down. It's been raining for three days here thought you'd like too know. Also please keep in mind the fact I haven't been to Paris in about four years but it is still my favourite city in the world (Leipzig and Dublin are a close second) care to share your favourite cities?**

**Oh yeah I can't claim the characters only the plot(which doesn't yet exist and the universe, so kneel peasants!)**

**Also swearing be warned**

The quartet practised in the park the day the music died -Don McLean

It was raining. So typical, I thought to myself, as I dashed through the streets of Paris. But, my brain mused, at least you aren't Stark, or Bruce for that matter. Thank God I only have three relatively small things to carry, yes I counted my umbrella. I sigh as a moped sprays grimy water over my shoes, if only I hadn't stopped at my favourite café for a latte, then I could have been pitched up and dry. My mind is quickly kidnapped from its wandering state as my umbrella slips and the freezing volley of water starts to slide down my back and neck. The one rainy day this week, we had to pick the _only_ rainy day of the entire fucking week.

I spot Barton's sandy hair and see him pass through the gateway across the street. I force myself to follow. Not the least bit surprised that he's neglected to open his umbrella in spite of the unrelenting onslaught from the heavens. Thor would love this, there you go again you could have been run ov- car! Having successfully evaded all forms of traffic La rue tried to maim me with, I allow my mind to wander back to Thor and pray that he's happy in New York. I want him to be safe too but I think that's a bit to much to ask, I mean he did manage to set a toaster on fire. I guess Thor is just the kind of guy who can be happy anywhere, even on a different planet, but even _Tony_ worries.

I'm surrounded by the greenness that is Le jardin du Luxembourg. As I meander along the rapidly emptying paths, I can see the dry patches of recently vacated spots and de-populated benches that are beginning to show specKles of water. I am half tempted to call out to Barton to easy the growing sense of emptiness in the park around me. But he won't hear me over the rain's unhappy compliance with gravity. That and the fact that if either Banner or Stark are within hearing range I (and Clint) will be mocked to distraction, I'm not in the mood for that. Ever.

The last hundred meters or so of my walk are undisturbed, people rarely venture into this forgotten nook of the park. As I round the last corner I can see Clint reluctantly open his virtually unused purple umbrella and prop it against a miraculously dry chair squirrelled away after our last group met up.

It makes me feel like a teenager again I have the urge to laugh drop my possessions and pelt over to the spot underneath the twining limbs and branches of ancient looking trees regardless of the physics obeying water. Instead I just smile, Clint's already grinning, his eyes are sparkling. His expression turns playful. "Bonjour Mademoiselle."

"Your French is still terrible Barton, how long have you lived here?" In all honesty my french is no better but his American accent does tend to make French incomprehensible and just unpretty. "Longer than you Tasha. Now come on stick your umbrella up, last thing we want is 'em getting wet."

"If they do I blame Tony. I swear it was him who said 'let's met on Tuesday, it's supposed to be sunny'." Clint shook his head. Which was still dripping wet despite the overly large umbrella he was taking refuge under. "Nat you blame the man for everything." I open my mouth to deny it but Bruce beat me to it. "Face it Romanoff, when asked what was the cause of world hunger you said, bearing in mind this is a word for word perfect quote, Tony Stark." Damn him and his silent foot steps.

"To be fair to me the question was actually about over population. I mean let's accept it, he's enough of a man whore." Bruce look slightly taken aback by the lack of subtlety but doesn't actually disagree. Whereas Barton is sat there nodding sombrely in agreement but as soon as our eyes meet our facades vanish and we both burst out laughing simultaneously. Bruce simply smiles at our rarely seen childish antics, opens a third huge umbrella and proceeds to lean heavily on his case.

"How are you liking the weather my friends?" Tony stops and actually acknowledges our glares and drenched bodies. "What? It's not my fault you peasants can't afford a cab." He makes a show of brushing water off his designer coat. And there goes any sympathy I might have had the capacity to feel for him later. "Are we going to start or just stand around discussing things, like last weekend I went to this art gallery and bar place opening, stupid waste of my time I agree, but I met this awesome brunette and lemme tell you she was good. Hey why's everyone shrunk?" Typical. We're bored, sat down and ready to start and he's just rambling on about his sex life, point proved Banner.

He responds to the hint and begins to untangle his seat from the bungee cords he strapped it to the flight case with. Promptly plonking the dripping perch down as close to Bruce as possible. "Do I really have to be the first?" He never fails to sound childlike (in the worst way). We all make eye contact glancing briefly from one to the next. Then begin to move mechanically. Unclasping and unzipping our cases in almost perfect unison, despite the size difference. I glance inside and check that no water has seeped in and that the humidity in the case is still low. I extract my bow from the rest and rosin it methodically having perfected the skill over the years, I lay the bow across my knees, which are not dripping wet.

I nudge my shoulder rest into place and experimentally pluck the strings, I can hear the others doing the same I automatically give the D peg a slight twist which is swiftly followed by a minor adjustment to the E string. I allow my eyes to drift over the scene laid out before me, as I lazily draw my bow across the A string in time with the others, a smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. Barton sees, and having completed the sacred ritual of tuning up, winks at me 'Let the show begin'

"Come on Avengers while we're sti..."

"Avengers? Whom are we avenging?" Stark leans around his Double Bass, it looks very precarious. "The music." his face implies 'have you heard the shit on the radio' well yes unfortunately.

"Le danse macabre?" Bruce enquiries. Barton Looks thoroughly unimpressed seeing as it is his firm belief that it should only be played at midnight or on Halloween. He does love it though dancing skeleingtons seem to amuse him. "No. We should start with something easier, you know to warm up a bit." We are all stumped, since when was _Tony Stark _a voice of reason? " We could start with Intermezzo Nocturno by Dvorak." Yes I know I said it was overplayed Barton that not the same as I don't like it. What? He was giving me the look of _who are you and what have you done with my best friend._ As a zen looking Bruce counts us in I focus on nothing but the music that I haven't played for around three months, how stiff and cold my fingers are feeling and lastly how fantastic it feels to be playing with people I trust again. As that bounces about my skull i lip further into the movement to the point of obliviousness almost.

**btw for people who are not orchestral string players rosin is the stuff you put on bows to give them traction against the strings. (i play viola and double bass(badly)). And also the trust thing you have to trust your group to be able to correct their own mistakes and they need to be able to trust you to correct your own. Hey I'm a music geek leave me be.**

**Right if you haven't heard Le danse macabre go listen to it right NOW! Me and my best friend were humming it and head nodding to it on the back of a bus, I'm also learning it on guitar it's so cool. Oh I've got Bruce as a cellist and Natasha as a violinist. I know most string quartets have two violins and no double bass, but i can't leave my own instrument out. sorry(*looks sheepish*)**

**This story was originally intended to be a one shot but I now have other ideas. That involve Steve and Fury. **

**Ps please reveiw you have no idea how high it makes me seem.**

**Love you keep up the awesomeness**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hey guys,**

**I hope your weekend has been better than mine I have the mother of all colds and it sucks. So for this chapter I would like to thank my awesome beta gemini96. So yeah, thanks :). Hope you enjoy. Also my dog is lying down with her head under the cooker it's quite weird. **

**Yeah ignore me. **

As I draw out the final notes I realize that my fingers are still as numb as ever despite not fumbling over the notes. I lower my violin and roll my shoulders, the bones clicking into place. I can see Bruce doing the same and Barton stretching out his arms, Stark looks as comfortable as ever leaning on his double bass. Clapping causes me to look up. I thought we'd be alone that's why we play _here _but not today. It's the wettest and most miserable of days and we have an audience, it consists of a sole tall, muscled, blond. His brown leather jacket is turning black with rain but he doesn't seem to care.

"C'etait exceptionnel." _that was incredible_

"Nous parlons tous anglais, vous êtes américain, vous ne sont pas?'_ we all speak english, you're american aren't you?_

"Your accent, it's kinda obvious." Clint is obviously the one to comment on that.

He moves to introduce himself, "I'm Steve. Do you mind me taking some photos of you guys playing?"

"As long as you get our good sides" How Tony says it so seriously, I don't know. In all these years of knowing him I'm reasonably certain he doesn't _think_ he has one, a good side that is. Bruce plucks out the intro to 'Welcome to the Black Parade'. I can't help raising my bow and joining in. Stark manages to quit staring at Steve and focuses on his fret broad, Barton's grinning like the flipping Cheshire cat.

I am unable to resist wondering why this guy would want photos of us. Street (or park) musicians aren't exactly uncommon in any capital city, especially Paris. (when we're soaked to the skin.) But that doesn't really matter does it. No, what matters is that I can finally feel all my fingers again. I knew I should have worn gloves, who really would have noticed if they didn't go with my outfit, which was not retaining any of my body heat whatsoever. Even more so now that my coat was open so I wouldn't ruin my shoulder rest. Professional music accessories are expensive.

As I play the melody I keep repeating the lyrics in my head, I'm never normally this absent minded on a Tuesday pre-evening (between afternoon and evening). The photographer's smiling with a look of concentration as he directs the camera lens at our little quartet. Lowering our bows we all look heaven-ward because somehow the rain got even heavier, the drops are bouncing back a foot off the ground now, and the drumming noise being made against our umbrellas and the leaves over-head is more grounding than our music could ever hope to be. But still Steve approaches us, "A few friends of mine and I are having a show, quite soon actually, and we could use some background music. It's going to be at le navire de l'air..."

"Hey! I was there last weekend, although I wasn't playing, I was..."  
Three glares inform him that we already knew and didn't care to begin with; we would hurt him, or at least kick his over talkative backside out into the downpour,which amazingly shut him up.

"Well if you want to... it's next Thursday." He hands something to Clint and just walks off, backpack slung over one shoulder.  
"Anyone else feel like they've seen him somewhere?"  
I know the face. Why do I know the face? They all shrug and start thinking about what to play a week from now.  
"At least it'll be warmer than here."  
I gave Bruce a withering look, "The Arctic would be warmer than here Bruce."

"Will I have to wear a tie?" Tie-wear was always a deciding factor for Clint.  
"The only time I've ever seen you wear a tie was at Coulson's wedding and you took it off on the way to the reception."  
Personally I was surprised that he didn't take it off _during_ the service but I guess he was the best man.  
"I remember that, really good after party, wasn't there?" I thought Tony would have forgotten based on the quantity of alcohol he consumed.  
Bruce being the only one with any sense of purpose today piped up, "We should do our version of April in Paris."

"What? Now?"  
He got an eye roll from me, "No Stark, on judgement day."  
"How exactly does it start again?" His voice gives no sense of embarrassment. Clint hums out the intro both Bruce and I are singers worthy of broken glass (not in the good way). He merely nods at me. It's finally my solo intro, if any of them notice me fudging it, they don't say anything. Which may or may not have something to do with the way I threatened to skin them with a teaspoon the second time we met, Clint just can't be bothered I guess, since he knows he'd get out of it.

Je suis une ligne.

The rain isn't as heavy now; it's like the silent tears that come after the bone wrecking hysterical ones, but some how still convey more sorrow. Tony has left to go and flag down a cab. How he expects to get one which will fit his double bass in, is beyond me. Bruce said that he had to meet an old friend, the smiling eyes told a different tale however. I know Clint saw it as well, he always does. We didn't mention it. We're sat under the purple umbrella, not touching, but close enough to share warmth, God knows we need to.  
"How was he?" I don't need to name him, the reason I haven't seen Clint in five months. "He's like hell Tasha. All he wants is to go out get hammered, get high and then get laid. He can't or just won't hold down a job. He's got nothing, no friends, no life, nothing to keep him on the straight and narrow. Barney's gonna be the death of me." He sounds so lost, so desperate. He's rubbing his face with his hands. I place my hand on his shoulder. "You listen to me, you have done your best, your god-damn absolute best to help him. It is _not_ your fault."

"But it is. My _best_ isn't fucking good enough to save my own brother..."

"Is he really your brother?" He's looking me straight in the eye. "Name one thing he has done for you, purely for you. Can you?" He looks down. "Blood family doesn't mean a damn thing, Clint. Coulson and me we're your family. Got it?"

He smiles sadly, "I missed you."  
Kissing my hairline he stands and offers a hand out to me. I want to drag him back down with me, but I know his balance is too good, so I let him pull me up out from the shelter of the purple monster. Grabbing my bag and violin case, I quickly rescue my umbrella from the chair it was resting against which was seconds away from being stowed six feet up in the trees by Barton.

Having safely stored it away in the hidey-hole, he jumps back down in a way that should not be humanly possible.  
"Doesn't it remind you of university?" He's wearing that shit eating grin again I can't help but laugh. "You make it sound like you were there too." He pretends to scowl at me and I laugh, "You know as opposed to just working at my favourite café." Which, as a matter of fact, was the one I stopped at earlier.  
"You were so much more fun back then sweetheart." I poke him with the soggy black umbrella in indignation, at the comment or the pet name, I can't decide.  
He yawns. "You haven't moved have you?"

I tilt my head,_ why would I have?_ Yes we can do that but we do like to pretend to be normal. "Because then you still have that really comfy couch."

"I left it at yours." He doesn't seem at all concerned by the health risks that, that statement would carry for anyone else, he holds up his hands "It wasn't breaking and entering, I have a key."

"Out of a flat, Barton?" I raise my eyebrows and he shrugs, "I've got two days till I move in."  
He does the eyes.  
A lot of people will say I'm cold, but that puppy-eyed pleading look makes me melt. Every _fucking_ time, and he _knows_ it.  
"Sure, but I thought you got back last week." He's shaking his head before I'm finished talking.  
"When you called I got the dates mixed up. I actually only got back this morning."  
I narrow my eyes at him, "Where's your suitcase then?

"I left it at yours." He doesn't seem at all concerned by the health risks that, that statement would carry for anyone else, he holds up his hands "It wasn't breaking and entering, I have a key." I sighed, "Don't really have a choice then, do I?"  
Even though we both know that if I did, the answer wouldn't change in the slightest.

**Thank you all you awesome people who've read this far and continue to read my slightly deranged ANs. ****I would also like to point out that the French is by google translate and my French well let's say rusty is a an understatement so if anyone could do the translations for me that would be awesome.**

**Reviews might stimulate my white blood cells so please say something.**


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